


Felix Culpa

by toomuchplor



Series: Schmoop Bomb: The Series [9]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Bottom!Eames, M/M, Porn, Schmoop, Sextra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-28
Updated: 2012-02-28
Packaged: 2017-10-31 20:37:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchplor/pseuds/toomuchplor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames probably would have been pleased with a sandwich, but Arthur's got a knack for making Eames happy in surprising ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Felix Culpa

**Author's Note:**

> Missing scene of sorts from [Oh, the Places You'll Go!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/347171). Sextra, really, from Eames' POV.

“Are you busy?” 

Arthur’s voice echoes up into the attic, businesslike and warm, and Eames takes a moment to look around and consider his response. Arthur was on a cleaning tear this morning; Eames fears that any response in the negative will necessarily involve him in Arthur’s compulsion. But Arthur rarely disturbs Eames’ peace in the attic, and usually when he does it’s with something nice: tea, or a sandwich, or a funny story that just can’t wait until Eames clambers back down the ladder.

“Not particularly,” Eames admits, hoping for a sandwich.

Arthur climbs up briskly enough, but there’s something a bit odd about his mood, something not quite casual in the way he’s moving. His gaze is skidding around a little too quickly. Moreover, he’s clutching a stuffed rabbit in one fist.

“Where did you find Herbert?” Eames asks, delighted.

“In Margaret’s toy box,” Arthur says, holding the rabbit out for Eames’ reaching hand. “I forgot about him, didn’t you?”

“Not for a minute,” Eames says, stroking Herbert’s soft fur, smiling stupidly at him. “God, he’s fey as fairy lights, isn’t he? You wouldn’t think a stuffed rabbit could be homosexual but I suppose he was sewn that way.”

Arthur laughs and pulls a chair over, straddles it and crosses his arms over the back. He’s still a bit skittish. His fingers, reaching out to glance a stroke over Herbert’s ears, brush Eames’ own, and they’re cold to the touch.

“Shall I put him in with the little dresses?” Eames asks. “If we leave him to the tender mercies of Margaret’s disregard he’ll be squashed permanently under mounds of space shuttles.” Eames reaches over and lifts the flap of the topmost box next to his desk.

“No,” Arthur says, clearing his throat, “no, keep him out. We might need him.”

Eames sets Herbert down on his blotter and tugs his kerchief askew. His heart gives a little premature thump. “What do you mean,” he half-asks, calmly, distractedly, even as his heart thumps again.

“I mean,” Arthur says, “you should call that agency, the one that said they’d arrange something. You should — you should do it right away, probably. Before I have time to talk myself out of it again.”

Eames turns his head and looks at Arthur, whose mouth is twitching, whose whole body is sparking with restless pleased energy. “Darling,” Eames says.

“We’ll have to look at putting that addition on the house,” Arthur says, “or maybe converting the little den, adding a closet and a window, but I guess we can wait on that, he’ll be in our room for the first few months at least.” He presses his lips together in a futile effort to hold his smile back. “Or she. I’m not — it’s not like I really care, but I wondered if you wanted a boy.”

Eames prides himself on his cool head in all sorts of situations but it’s a fact he swallowed long ago that Arthur undoes all his usual strengths. He doesn’t bother feeling ashamed then, when words escape him entirely and he’s reduced to seizing Arthur by the head and kissing the hell out of him, awkward with the chair back between them, unromantic in the dusty dimness of the attic, Herbert the Hare casting a glassy gimlet eye on the whole situation. “Really?” is all Eames can manage when he breaks free at length. “Really?”

“Really,” Arthur says, and reaches up to drag the flat of his thumb against the grain of Eames’ stubbled cheek. “You didn’t change your mind in the meantime, did you? Because that would be a little too O. Henry for me.”

“No,” says Eames, turning his head and pursing his lips to kiss Arthur’s thumb. “No, I’d just — given up, I suppose. You’re not exactly known for your tractability, much as I adore you. But — darling, if you’re serious—“

—“I’m serious,” interjects Arthur easily, soberly.

—“I’m over the moon,” Eames finishes in all earnestness. “Arthur, I’m over the fucking moon.”

“You don’t look happy,” Arthur observes, smiling enough for both of them. “You look,” and he pauses and flicks a practiced eye over Eames’ expression, reading him easily, “you look sort of horny. It’s not quite the same th—“

“Mm,” agrees Eames easily enough, and breaks away from Arthur’s hand, hurrying to unbutton his own shirt. “Well spotted. Kit off.”

“Is this some kind of pregnancy fetish roleplay that I should,” Arthur starts to ask, amused, “I mean, should I say something about how I’m a fertile field waiting to be sown with your seed or”—

—“Please, not,” Eames breaks in, finally rediscovering his smile, rising up and unbuttoning his trousers. “Besides, I was rather hoping you might plow my furrow this time round.”

“This is the most agriculturally-based dirty talk I’ve ever had,” Arthur muses, but it’s hardly stopping him from unbuttoning his own shirt cuffs, rolling up his sleeves like he doesn’t plan to get more undressed than necessary. “And yes, all right. Gladly.” He leans forward and pulls open the top drawer of Eames’ desk, grabs the bottle of lube Eames keeps there for mostly private recreational purposes. “It’s one thirty-four,” Arthur says, taking his watch off and laying it on the desk blotter, just so. “One of us has to go fetch Margaret from school in about twenty-five minutes, so let’s not get too wrapped up in the details here.”

“Be still my heart,” Eames responds, and sort of means it. It’s been so long, with Arthur; Eames honestly isn’t sure if punctuality has always been a hot-button for him or if Arthur has conditioned him into enjoying sex on a timer, but Eames likes a challenge above all things. He snaps the lube from Arthur’s hand and hastens over to the squashy disreputable sofa that sits, half-collapsed on itself, off to one side. “How do you want me, then?”

Arthur stands up and unbuckles his belt, frowning a little like it’s a problem to be worked out on a job, logistics and timing and maximizing the twenty-five minutes allotted them. “Start off on your elbows and knees,” he decides, reaching into his pants in a way that might be coy if they weren’t seven years married. Maybe, Eames thinks, watching the twist of Arthur’s wrist as he works himself hard, maybe it _is_ coy. Fancy that. “Eames,” Arthur says. “Elbows and knees. Go.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Eames says, grinning, and goes, wasting no time getting the lube open and reaching around behind to slick himself open for Arthur. “Are you really planning to fuck me with your tie on?” Eames asks, looking over his shoulder to enjoy the sight of Arthur watching with his mouth just slightly agape, cheeks starting to pink up.

“No, of course not,” Arthur says, and lets go of his cock long enough to wiggle the knot of his tie loose and tug the tie roughly up and off his neck. He lets the silk loop hang from his fingers for a moment as he gets distracted again by Eames’ fingers in Eames’ arse, and then he blinks back to himself and curves his mouth at the sight of his tie. “I could use it for other things,” he says. “Blindfold? Gag? Bind your wrists?”

“Twenty minutes,” Eames reminds him. “And you love that tie, you don’t want my spit all over it.”

Arthur nods, still smiling, and lays the tie down beside his watch. “Next time,” he says. “How’s it coming, there? Should I take over?”

“You really are wonderfully sure that you’re the best at everything,” Eames says fondly, but he pulls his hand away. His wrist was tired from the angle anyway. “Right, get over here and show me how a real bottom can finger an arse, you smug tosser — ah, fuck, warn a bloke.”

“No,” Arthur says, and sets his teeth in the flesh of Eames’ arsecheek and bites down gently while he pumps two fingers in and out, turning his wrist as he goes. 

Eames holds still as he can as all the blood in his body that’s not already trapped in his cock blooms up from his chest and heats his face. He hangs his head and heaves in air and does his utmost not to blurt out that, yes, all right, point taken — Arthur’s hands are, he’s very, he knows what he’s bloody well doing.

“Hey,” says Arthur, lifting his head only to rest his chin on Eames’ hip while his hand goes on working, “do you think yellow and teal would be good for a new room for Margaret?”

Eames presses his forehead into the cushion and grunts out something that’s supposed to resemble words admonishing Arthur for being distracted when Eames is barely clinging to some semblance of — well, dignity’s long gone, actually. He gathers his wits and tries again. “That’s enough.”

“No, it’s really not,” Arthur says. “For me it would be enough, but you’re still,” and he scissors his fingers gently in demonstration. Eames does _not_ squeak. “Hence my trying to distract you.”

“With questions of interior design?” Eames checks. “Arthur, have we _met_? Were it up to me I’d chuck Margaret and the new one into a room with paint and brushes and let them have their way, I honestly couldn’t give a toss about colour schemes and — oh, fuck, _oh_.”

“That’s it,” Arthur says, the smile audible in his voice. “You know, you’re kind of high maintenance.”

Eames trembles and sweats and tries to remember consonants, but all he’s got are vowels now, and it’s work enough getting them out between gasps for air while Arthur curls his fingers and strokes Eames expertly from the inside.

“Lucky for you I like being in charge of maintenance,” Arthur says, withdrawing his fingers and then, by the sounds Eames hears over the pounding of his heart, the scrape of his breath, slicking himself up. “It appeals to my inner control freak.”

The sofa squeals as Arthur resettles his weight and curls his fingers around Eames’ hip, and then there’s the hot slippery pressure as Arthur lines himself up and gives an initial gentle push.

“Breathe out,” Arthur says, like Eames doesn’t know.

“I know,” Eames says tetchily, “I”— but he’s too busy snipping at Arthur to do anything, and it’s a bit embarrassing when Arthur doesn’t pause for him to realize it, the way Eames has to explode the air out of his lungs in a rush as Arthur just gamely leans his weight forward and pushes in with a long smooth thrust.

“That’s nice,” Arthur says vaguely, finally showing a little strain at the edges of his voice, “fuck, that’s really nice.”

“Ah,” Eames contributes breathlessly. “Oh, fuck.”

Mostly Eames likes fucking Arthur, and there’s no question that Arthur adores being fucked. It works between them, effortless and hot, chasing the sine wave of married life, so sometimes it’s almost rote, sometimes hilarious and companionable, sometimes desperate and fraught. Eames has no complaints, not a one, and if they’re the boring married gays at least they’re the ones who still fuck regularly, and enthusiastically more often than not. This, though — Arthur on top — this is one more way in which it works for them, having Arthur bottom nearly all the time. Because there’s little enough left in the way of novelty nine years into their sex lives together, but this — they do this seldom enough that it’s still — Eames hates the word even as he thinks it — still _special_. It’s still — rough around the edges, rife with all the little ways that they don’t quite get it right, and the surprising moments where it’s amazingly good, like treading a minefield of pleasure. Two steps in this direction and blam, Eames is arching his back and crying out and Arthur’s going _really? there? like that?_ and god, does Eames like surprising him, like being surprised by him.

So Arthur works that angle and Eames shakes and cries out more than he generally does when he’s the one on top, and there’s unaccustomed strain on underworked muscles and Eames has to work a little to figure out how to say what he wants because it’s not what he’s used to, this — this mindless not-quite-passivity.

“Okay, if you want, yeah,” Arthur says, and pulls out, and Eames flips onto his back with what he fears is too little grace, kneeing Arthur in the side and trying to remember what he does with Arthur’s legs when their positions are reversed. “Just,” Arthur says, “jesus, let me.”

“Kiss me,” Eames says — all right, pleads, and then he’s got Arthur over him and in him, kissing Eames and using Eames, and oh — Eames can appreciate being used, being useful, when it makes Arthur sweat through his shirt and pull almost thoughtlessly at Eames’ hair. “Come in me,” Eames adds, “go on, come inside me, I — I want you to.”

Arthur moves harder, straining and moaning softly, and when he comes he’s hilted deep as he can go. Eames likes Arthur making a mess of him, generally speaking, and it’s sort of wonderfully filthy that Arthur’s mess is — for a few moments anyway — so intimately contained between them. Arthur sags down onto him for a moment, catching his breath, and when he pulls back it’s on a slippery wake of Arthur’s come. _Must you?_ is what Arthur usually says, hiding a smile, when their positions are reversed and Eames has coaxed him into forgoing a condom, but it’s Eames’ disreputable couch in Eames’ grimy attic, and Eames’ arse besides, so Arthur doesn’t pretend to be fussy for once, just smiles and reaches between them to slip his fingers through the slick place between Eames’ thighs. “How do you want me to make you come?” he asks, fingertip flirting with Eames’ arsehole. “Mouth or hand? We don’t have time for you to fuck me.”

“Mouth,” Eames decides, encouraging Arthur’s finger with an unsubtle roll of his hips. “Don’t — don’t tease.”

“Right,” says Arthur, “because you never,” but he pushes the finger inside and licks around Eames’ foreskin and Eames comes about two hard sucks later, too close for too long to hold out any longer. Arthur swallows because he’s the neat one, and Eames likes it anyway. Arthur crawls back up Eames’ body and straddles his hips while he does the top three buttons of his shirt, which are the only ones that had come undone during their encounter. “You stay here, I’ll go get her,” he says. “Though you should probably have a shower.”

Eames lifts a heavy pleased hand and sort of pats Arthur’s cheek. “It would be nice if that was how we,” he says, not quite managing to form the thought into a coherent string of words, almost immediately glad he hadn’t because it’s a bit embarrassing, actually.

Arthur gets it anyway, Eames can see by the way he leans his head briefly into the pressure of Eames’ palm. “Simpler, maybe,” he agrees. “But you mean the romance of it, right?”

“Born of love and all that,” Eames says, hooking his other hand into Arthur’s belt to hold him in place for another moment.

“He’ll still be born of love,” Arthur says, somewhere between dismissive and fond, pulling up on his knees far enough to sort out his pants and trousers. His brown eyes flicker up from his task and meet Eames’ gaze, serious all at once. “He’ll be ours, because we love each other. That’s the reason he’ll be our baby.”

Eames blinks up at Arthur, a bit stunned. “You do surprise me, sometimes,” he says.

“Just when you’re convinced I haven’t got a heart,” Arthur says, dimpling, knocking Eames’ hand away and clambering to his feet, “I go and throw you for a loop, right?”

“That’s not what I meant at all,” Eames protests, pulling down the blanket that’s draped over the back of the couch, thinking he might have a quick kip before grabbing that shower. “Will you ever tell me what changed your mind, then?”

Arthur is wrapping his watch round his wrist, brow furrowed, smooth and neat like he hadn’t been fucking Eames for all he was worth mere minutes earlier. He looks up briefly and then twitches the corner of his mouth. “If I told you everything,” he says, “how would I ever surprise you?” He unrolls his cuffs and buttons them, reaches for his tie.

“Arthur,” Eames says, fighting his heavy eyelids to utter this one last important thing. “You make me so happy, darling.”

Arthur huffs with pleasure and fixes his collar. He comes close enough to drop a kiss onto Eames’ forehead before he goes. “Happy Darling,” he says. “There’s an idea for a name.”

**Author's Note:**

> Felix (the name of their eventual second child) is, of course, Latin for "happy". Latin puns are the shit.
> 
> I had no sooner hit 'post' on this when Xen informed me that there is [a well-known Inception fic by the same name](http://archiveofourown.org/works/216454), which goes to underline my continued woeful ignorance of many awesome Inception fics. /o\ But from what I understand, the title is used differently so I'm going to stick with it anyway. I do swear forthwith to read said fic by the same name, however.
> 
> In other news, here's Herbert. He's the wrong colour but Xen very kindly gave him the necessary kerchief. I think we can all agree that this is an extremely homosexual stuffed rabbit, and also that Tom Hardy clearly finds him DELIGHTFUL.
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://s78.photobucket.com/albums/j104/toomuchplor/?action=view&current=Capturedcran2012-02-26214357.png)  
> 


End file.
